


Nous Protégeons

by eternaleponine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Grief, Mourning, post-season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:11:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of his daughter's death, Chris Argent has to find a way to move on... and live up to the promises they made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nous Protégeons

Days pass. The bodies - _victims_ , Chris reminds himself, they aren't just bodies, they're victims – are buried or burned, the ashes scattered. (He's seen too much to let his daughter, his little girl, be laid to rest under six feet of earth. There were be no guarantee of peace for her there.) Life goes back to normal... or what passes for normal in Beacon Hills.

Except nothing is normal. He is a father without a child and that is not normal. Nothing will ever be normal again.

He packs up his things, prepares to go. Her door remains shut, with everything that was hers but nothing of her behind it. He puts it off as long as he can but it has to be done, and there's no one else to do it. He thinks, briefly, about having her friends come over, letting them take what they can find of hers to keep, let them have closure, take what comfort they can from _things_ , but no, they've taken enough of her, they've taken all of her.

He doesn't blame them. Not exactly. Not entirely. How can he, when so much of the blame is on his shoulders? She is – was (and his shoulders slump and his fingers tighten on the doorknob that he can't bring himself to turn) – an Argent. It was his blood and his teaching that put her in that place.

And her heart. Her loyalty. Her... everything that made her _her_ put her there, solving the mystery of how to kill the Oni and losing her life in the process. 

He twisted the knob, then stopped himself, raised his other hand, knocked, because he was supposed to knock, even when he knew there would be no answer, there would never be an answer again, and he almost can't make himself do it. 

_Tomorrow,_ he tells himself. _You can do it tomorrow._

But no. It won't be any easier tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. They say that time heals all wounds but it's a lie. There are some wounds that will never heal, like an Oni's blade through the gut, or the loss of a child.

He leans his shoulder against the door and eases it open.

And he's not alone. His heart gives a painful thud against his ribcage as adrenaline floods through his system, and he reaches for a gun that isn't there. But the person on the bed makes no move to attack, only looks up, straight at him with tear-filled eyes, and tries – he tries, he really does, and Chris isn't sure how or why – to smile.

"Isaac."

The boy nods like Chris actually needs confirmation of his identity. He could ask how he got in but he knows the answer already. He could ask why, but he knows that too. So he just stands in the door and Isaac sits on the bed, and they watch each other, in equal parts wary and entirely understanding.

It's Isaac who finally breaks the silence. "You're leaving." 

It's not a question, but Chris answers anyway. "Yes."

"Where?"

He'd considered leaving Beacon Hills. He'd thought about getting as far away from this place that had taken everything from him – wife, sister, daughter – and given him nothing in return, and starting over somewhere else. It would be easier, wouldn't it, to be somewhere where every little thing didn't remind him of what had been and would never be again? It would be easier, wouldn't it, to not see her around every corner, not expect her to walk out of the school or the woods or through the door?

It would be easier, wouldn't it?

Wouldn't it?

But no, he'd realized finally. It wouldn't. No matter where he went, how far away he got, he would always be looking for her, always seeing her where she wasn't, because he was a hunter, and a father, and it was his _job_ to always look for her, and that didn't, wouldn't stop just because she was nowhere to be found and never would be again.

And they'd made a vow, hadn't they? They'd made a promise. 

_We protect those who cannot protect themselves._

She would never forgive him if he left now, when those she'd cared so much about, those she'd loved so much she was willing to give her life for them, were still in danger, and maybe always would be. She'd died to protect them (he had to believe that, he had to believe there was some deeper meaning behind it, some reason he'd lost her) and now she wasn't here to do it so he would do it for her, so that when he saw her again she would be smiling and not standing with crossed arms and set jaw, demanding to know why he'd let her down.

"Not far," he says, and he thinks he sees relief in the young werewolf's eyes. "I found another apartment. I can't..." He shrugs, forces his shoulders down again. "I can't stay here."

"Do you... need help?"

Chris doesn't know the answer to that question. He's not sure he can do this with someone else there to witness it, because he's not sure he can hold it together, and he's not sure he wants to. But he's not sure he can make himself do it at all on his own, either. 

He hands Isaac a box.

They don't talk, and they make their own decisions about what should be kept and what should go. The temptation to keep everything is strong, but what good will it do? So Chris sifts through, making one box of the things he wants for himself and one of the things he thinks her friends might want, but most of it isn't her, doesn't bear traces of her or carry any part of her in it, and that gets packed away into a third box that will go to charity, but not here, not in Beacon Hills, because if he saw someone wearing her clothes...

It's getting dark as the last of the boxes is sealed and labeled. They load the ones going to charity into his car, and Chris reaches out and touches Isaac's shoulder, the back of his neck, and Isaac looks at him with his soul stripped bare, emotions raw, nerves exposed, and for a moment neither of them know what to do and then Isaac bolts.

Chris thinks about calling after him, but the words dry up on his tongue and he just watches him go, disappearing too fast for an ordinary boy into the trees in the distance. He gets in his car and drives until he's far enough away that he doesn't think he'll ever see this place again, and dumps the boxes outside of Goodwill and thinks about just continuing in the direction he's been going, but no, he made a promise, a pact, agreed to a code, and if he betrays that than who, what is he?

He manages the rest of the move on his own. The real estate agent, or apartment broker, whatever you called someone whose job it was to find you a place to live because you couldn't make yourself do it even though you couldn't stand to be where you were, either, had looked at him strangely when he'd requested that she find him a two bedroom apartment, but he'd insisted, saying that he needed a spare room for an office. He'd thought, at the time, that he was telling the truth.

But if that is the case, why is he putting a bed in the room, and a dresser? Not her bed, not her dresser; this isn't his daughter's room. He buys new sheets, a new bedspread, new everything for a room that no one is ever going to sleep in. It doesn't make sense, but it feels like a compulsion, like something he _has_ to do, and he is too tired to fight it. He makes the bed, props the pillows against the headboard, and shuts the door... then opens it again, just a crack. 

Days pass. The sun rises and sets and rises again, and Chris does the same, but everything feels empty, and he thinks again about leaving, because nothing is happening and they don't need him here really, do they?

He orders Chinese food because he can't face cooking for one... but orders enough for two. Three. Too much, anyway, and then he pulls two plates from the cupboard and when he realizes it, has to set them down because his hands start shaking. 

Habit, he knows, but it doesn't make it hurt any less. He thinks about putting one back, putting both back, eating straight out of the containers but it's Allison's voice in his head ('Ew, Dad, gross. Were you raised by wolves?' which was funny before she knew anything about the family business and still funny even after only they were both in on the joke) that makes him stop.

He puts one plate down on the table, holds the other by its edges, knowing he should put it back but knowing too that doing so feels like giving up, admitting that this is real, and forever, and he's not sure he's quite ready for that.

And there's Isaac. Who found him – followed him, maybe, he didn't try to be clandestine about his relocation – and has been lurking outside, on and off, for days. Watching, Chris assumes, although he doesn't know why. There's nothing to see except a man trying to hold it together, trying to move on and not just shatter into as many pieces as this plate would if he dropped it.

He goes to the window, looks out, but he doesn't see the werewolf out there. No telltale flash of eyes, nothing. He looks close first, and then farther out in sweeps until his eyes reach the horizon. Nothing. No one. But he knows that he's there, in the way a hunter knows. 

He sets the plate down on the table, and a glass, and a knife and fork and chopsticks, sets a place at a chair that no one has ever sat in and then sets his own place and scoops food onto the plate. He goes to the door and unlocks it, comes back and begins to eat slowly.

He hears the door open, hears it close again, and the lock slide back into place. Footsteps approach slowly, cautiously, like this might be a trap that he's walking straight into, and Chris can't help but admire that. It shows good sense.

Isaac sits down in the empty chair, glancing at Chris out of the corner of his eye, but Chris just keeps eating, paying him no attention because it feels a little like trying to lure in a stray. Offer food, make no sudden moves, gain its trust...

_He's a werewolf._ It's his father's voice, his sister's, his wife's in his head.

_He's a boy,_ he tells them. _A boy Allison loved._

_And whose fault is that?_ , they ask. _You were too soft on her, and look how it ended._

He knows this. He doesn't have to be told. But he also knows who she became, who she was in the end, and he can't take all of the credit or even really most of it. They weren't there. They don't know. 

And he is a father without a child.

And this is a child without a father.

After dinner... or tomorrow, or in a few days, however long it takes... he'll show him his room.

He doesn't need to be able to see Allison to know that she's smiling.


End file.
